


Marian of the Circle

by dreamofroses



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Origins, Dragon Age: Origins - Awakening
Genre: Circle Mages, Circle Tower (Dragon Age), F/M, Grief/Mourning, Mages (Dragon Age), Teacher-Student Relationship, Templars (Dragon Age)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-14
Updated: 2020-08-18
Packaged: 2021-02-22 23:03:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 9,342
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23135110
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dreamofroses/pseuds/dreamofroses
Summary: Marian Hawke made the biggest mistake of her life--an impulse, a drunk impulse--and now she has a one-way ticket to Fereldan's Circle Tower. The best she can do is keep her head down (not her strong suit) and hope she doesn't give the templars any reason to look for more mages in her family.Meanwhile, First Enchanter Irving hopes that by tasking the Tower's resident escape artist with looking after this seemingly docile new arrival will help him settle down before he gets himself in over his head with trouble.
Relationships: Anders/Female Hawke, past Anders/Karl Thekla - Relationship
Comments: 10
Kudos: 27





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I recently played Dragon Age II for the first time and my mage Hawke fell for Anders, even though I'd been meaning her for Fenris. The whole time, though, I kept wondering what it might have been like if Justice wasn't around to gum things up. I rather missed snarky Awakening-era Anders. So, I had the idea to put my Humorous Hawke in the Circle and let the two of them interact. I quickly came to realize that the nature of the Circle means this is not going to be a lighthearted piece. I don't know if I can pull it off, having no solid direction for the plot and no confidence in my ability to write sarcastic characters. In any case, I hope you like it. :)  
> ~dreamofroses

It was raining. Of course, it was raining. That’s just how it went these days. Bad things happened and then, when you were at your absolute lowest, the cold and rain came along to teach you a lesson about how there were no absolutes when it came to low. There was always a down from here.

Marian stood in the rain, or rather leaned against the wall of Dane’s Refuge in the rain, too drunk to think clearly but not drunk enough to not think at all. She ran her fingers through her hair to peel the wet strands from her forehead; they fell to the sides of her face, uneven and disheveled. 

“Hawke! What are you doing out here in the rain?” said one of the most inoffensive, unremarkable men in Lothering as he approached the tavern’s door. Marian knew she knew him, but for the life of her couldn’t remember his name.

“Tryin’ not to sober up,” she answered him. “Care to help in the effort?”

“Danal cut you off already?” the man asked.

“Eh! More so my empty purse,” Marian answered with something approximating a shrug. 

“Um…” the man hesitated. “Look…Hawke…”

“What?”

“You know I like you, and under normal circumstances, I’d be more than happy to buy you a drink or two, but, you know, I heard about your father, and…”

Marian pushed herself off the tavern wall and drew herself up to her full height in an attempt to look, if not dignified, at least self-respecting. “And you’re afraid I’m gonna drink you out of all your coin from grief?” she asked before the world started to shift and she had to lean back against the wall for support.

The man sighed. “Don’t you think you’d better be with your family at a time like this?”

Yes. Yes, she did. Marian scowled. “If you’re not gonna help me, then leave me alone,” she said.

The man sighed again, shook his head, and went into the tavern.

Marian closed her eyes and lifted her face under the cold drops of rain. She should be at home with her family. That was her place, her duty, as the oldest child. Take care of Mother. Look out for the twins. They needed her and she’d already fucked it up.

It was a blur in her mind; she couldn’t remember how it had started but then Carver was yelling at her and she was sneering right back and Mother was in tears and Bethany begged them to stop. Carver had stormed off and Bethany had run after him to make things better, as she did, and Marian had been left alone in the house with Mother. Mother hadn’t said anything, but Marian could read her crimes in those red eyes. _You’re not a child anymore, Marian. Why can’t you act like it? Your father’s dead, and all you can think to do is squabble with Carver. Grow up._

Unable to bear the condemnation, Marian had fled the house. Walk it off, she told herself. Calm down. But she didn’t know quite what to do. Usually, when she felt like this—pent up, confused, lost in something bigger than she knew how to handle—she went to Father. He always knew what to say to soothe her, bring her back down to solid ground, often with some story about what a scamp he’d been as a youth. They’d laugh and life would go on. Maker, she missed him. He’d only been gone a few days and already she didn’t know what to do without him.

So, in the absence of any sage words from a respected role model, Marian had ended up at Dane’s Refuge. She had spent what little coin she happened to have with her wisely in an attempt to get as drunk as possible. It had worked, but it wasn’t enough. She still felt like shit, only now she couldn’t walk in a straight line, and no one wanted to buy her the drinks necessary to blot everything out.

Mother would have told her to go to the chantry for consolation rather than the tavern. Only trust in the Maker would ease her pain. But, even though she had gone to services every week since they’d settled in Lothering and frequently enough before, Marian had never felt comfortable in a chantry. Part of it was the templars, who never failed to put her on edge, but mostly it was the knowledge that she was one of those mages the Revered Mother preached about in such severe way all too often. 

But Father had always said that, just because mortals in the Chantry interpreted the Chant in one way, it didn’t mean that was the only way or even the best way, and they went to the chantry to revere the Maker and not the people who served him. Mother hadn’t exactly agreed, but it had stopped Marian from kicking up a fuss about going every week, so she had let it be. 

It was thinking about that which led Marian to weave her way over the river and to the chantry. It wasn’t so late yet that the lamps had been put out, and the light glowed invitingly through the windows in the gloom of the evening rain. The drops danced noisily on the armor of the unlucky templar designated to stand guard outside.

Marian stiffened at the sight of him and managed a relatively straight, if mechanical, march toward the door.

“Hawke?” the templar asked, surprised. “By the Maker, I didn’t think you came to the chantry unless your mother was dragging you by the ear.”

Marian forced a smile and said, “Mm,” which, coincidentally may have been the start of the templar’s name. Maker, she was bad with names when she was drunk. She kept walking.

Inside the chantry, the only people around were templars and sisters. Marian wobbled to the pews at the front, oblivious to their stares and concerned whispers. She half-fell down onto the bench and looked up at the statue of Andraste.

Why couldn’t you have found a way to live with mages? Marian wondered at the statue. Why do we have to suffer for what those Tevinters did a thousand years ago? If mages were free, there might have been a healer…or she might have learned to be a healer, and then Father wouldn’t have…Father wouldn’t have had to die.

Marian had enough sense left in her not to speak those words aloud, but she couldn’t stop the tears that came to her eyes. She tried, but they welled up against her will and spilled down her cheeks. As soon as she gave up fighting the tears, she realized she’d been holding her breath and tried to take a discrete breath but it came out as a gasping sob. Once the sobs started, she couldn’t hold those back, either. She’d been holding back on crying for so long now that it just poured out of her and she was bawling in the chantry like an idiot.

Someone must have gotten the Revered Mother because, the next thing Marian knew, the old woman was there. The golds and reds of her Chantry robes blurred through Marian’s tears. She sat down next to her on the pew while Marian tried to rub her face dry.

“Oh, child,” the Revered Mother said. “I know it is hard losing a father, and so suddenly. At times like these, it is too easy to blame the Maker for our pain, so it gladdens me tremendously that you have chosen to seek solace in the balm of His love instead.” She took Marian’s hand and patted it.

What should have been a comforting gesture felt like poison to Marian and she jerked her hand away. “Don’t touch me,” she said.

The Revered Mother recoiled as if struck. “Have you been drinking, child?” she asked but did not require an answer. “I understand your pain, but that does not give you an excuse to profane the Maker’s house with vice. Go home, sleep it off, and when you are ready—and sober—I will be more than happy to speak with you about your loss.”

She took Marian’s elbow and tried to guide her to stand, but Marian pulled her arm out of the Revered Mother’s grasp. 

Marian knew she was being obstinate and that she ought to just go, but she couldn’t. All these years, she’d smiled and bowed her head and promised to do what the Revered Mother suggested. All these years, she’d sat in the pews with her family, praying that the Maker didn’t mean the things the Revered Mother thought He meant. All these years, hating her and what she represented: the hand holding the templars’ leash, the threat of life in the Circle. So, she sat there, stubborn, stiffly, staring at Andraste’s feet.

“Come now, Marian,” the Revered Mother said. “You don’t want to do this. It will be easier for everyone if you leave under your own power.”

Marian flicked her gaze up to see if the Revered Mother was serious. She pressed her lips together and held her ground, but she was wavering. Did she really want to pick this fight?

The Revered Mother took her elbow in hand again and tried to coax her up.

Marian had already drawn forth the mana before she was even aware of what she intended to do with it. Then she released it in a blast that sent the Revered Mother falling on her rump. A little too hard—Marian had only intended to make her stumble back a bit.

“I said, ‘Don’t touch me,’” she pronounced, standing, even as the templars who had been milling about in the building rushed over.

It was only when the first templar reached them that the consequences of her actions penetrated Marian’s inebriated mind. She could only stand there, frozen in horror at her own reckless stupidity, as the templars restrained her.


	2. Chapter 2

Marian woke to the chill damp of an underground room and the smell of moldy straw. Her head was pounding and her entire body ached, but at least she wasn’t nauseous. She lay still for a while, staring at the wooden beams that ran across the ceiling. She knew where she was and why—the drink hadn’t been enough to erase her memories—but it was no comfort. There was no comfort for an apostate in the dungeon of a chantry.

A key ground in the lock of her cell and the door swung open slowly on complaining hinges. Ser Maron, the templar who had greeted Marian at the door last night, entered with a tray. He slammed it down next to her, where she could see that all it contained was a meager piece of bread and a cup of water.

“Your breakfast, apostate,” he said, then added, “Revered Mother’s orders,” as if he were afraid of looking soft. And Marian had been affably “Hawke” last night. How times changed.

“It looks like someone’s in a bright, sunshiny mood today,” Marian quipped, gingerly sitting up on her elbows and hoping she did not acquire any positional nausea.

Ser Maron only stared at her icily.

“What’s the matter?” she asked. “Did you forget to pull the stick out of your ass this morning? You can go do that now if you like. I’ll wait.”

Ser Maron clenched his fist so tightly it shook. For a moment, Marian thought he would hit her, but he took a deep breath and relaxed. “Be careful who you talk to like that, apostate,” he said. “They won’t take it too kindly if you go to the Circle.”

“If?” Marian asked.

“Ser Bryant and the Revered Mother are deciding whether to send you or just to execute you now for your apostasy,” Ser Maron explained. When Marian expressed her horrified confusion through silence, he added, “You attacked someone—the Revered Mother, no less—with magic. What did you expect?”

She hadn’t expected anything. She hadn’t meant for any of this to happen in the first place. Still, she recovered herself enough to answer. “Well, whatever they decide, at least I get to wait in the best room in Lothering. Now, shoo. I’ll ring if I need anything.” Marian waved her hand as if to dismiss the templar.

Ser Maron grunted, shook his head, and left. His heavily booted footsteps echoed down the hallway, and Marian waited until she could not hear them anymore to sit up the rest of the way and take stock of her situation. 

She sighed, ran her fingers through her short hair, and stared at the lump of bread. She wondered whether she was likely to get more and what rationing would look like with such a small store to begin with. Of course, it was possible that all of her food worries would soon be put to a very sharp end.

Maker, she felt like an idiot. What had she been thinking? What had she been drinking? How could she do this to her family? Were they looking for her? Did they know where she was? Did they know what might happen to her? 

There weren’t many templars in Lothering. It was a small village, so there wasn’t really a need. They weren’t watching her very carefully. If she didn’t make a commotion, she might be able to escape. She could go back home, and then…and then they’d be on the run again. Perhaps forever. They hadn’t taken any blood from her yet, so she might be able to disappear, but Bethany would be at risk. Mother and Carver would probably never forgive her. 

A chill ran through her as a new thought occurred. What if it was on purpose? What if they were tempting to her to escape, so there would be no question of her fate when she was caught? What if they were waiting to ambush her the second she tried to leave the chantry? It seemed ridiculous, over-complicated, and yet horribly plausible. Father had always warned her not to underestimate the templars. They might be infuriatingly single-minded, but they weren’t stupid and could be as crafty as foxes when it came to hunting apostates.

No, in the end, it was better to sit quietly and hope that they let her live to fight another day. She hated it, would rather die a thousand times with her boots on, but it wasn’t just her life to risk. Right now, Bethany was more or less safe so long as she kept her head down. But if Marian unwittingly led the templars back to her family, Bethany might be forced to defend herself and thereby reveal herself. Carver might rush headfirst into a fight to protect the family and get himself killed. She knew Father would have sacrificed himself to protect her if necessary, and now she had to do the same for the rest of the family.

Marian picked up the piece of bread and nibbled it carefully. She put it down and took a small sip of the water. She contemplated her meager supplies in an attempt to distract herself from her possible fate but came back around to thinking what a sorry last meal this would be. Giving up, she lay back down and tried to sleep. Failing that, she started the process over again—sit up, eat some bread, drink some water, try not to think about dying, think about dying, lie down, fail to sleep, start over.

She was in the lying down phase of the cycle, her food and water gone, when Ser Maron returned. Marian closed her eyes and pretended to be asleep. Whatever her fate, she wouldn’t give the templars the satisfaction of seeing her rattled. She let him try to wake her for several seconds before opening her eyes a crack and affecting a large yawn.

“Yes?” she asked.

Ser Maron wasn’t amused. “You’re not winning yourself any points here, apostate,” he said.

Marian put on her most winning smile, “Did you need something, ser knight?”

Ser Maron grunted. “The Revered Mother is asking for you.”

“Is she?” Marian asked.

“Stop talking and stand up,” Ser Maron ordered.

Marian chafed at being told what to do and considered ignoring him. She considered it and dismissed the idea. Her chances of surviving this ordeal were best served by being compliant no matter how much she hated it. She closed her mouth and stood.

Ser Maron bound her hands. He checked to make sure the binding was secure and then pushed Marian out of her cell. He led, or rather manhandled, her all the way to the Revered Mother’s office.

“There she is,” the Revered Mother said to Ser Bryant when Ser Maron entered the room with Marian. “Thank you for bringing her, Ser Maron. You may go.”

The templar saluted and left the room.

“Marian Hawke,” the Revered Mother said.

Marian bowed her head. It was easier not to think about quips or pulling faces when she was looking at the floor.

“How old are you, child?” the Revered Mother asked.

“I just turned twenty last Firstfall,” Marian replied.

“You must have come into your magic quite some time ago.”

Marian pressed her lips together to remind herself not to speak without having been asked a question.

“And yet no one knew what you were until yesterday. You must have had a teacher. Who?”

Marian remained silent. 

“Come now, Marian. You can’t expect us to believe that you were able to hide all these years without any training. Tell us who your teacher was and it will be easier for both of you.”

Father was dead. There was nothing they could do to him anymore. If revealing him would save her… Marian closed her eyes and prayed he would forgive her when she met him in the next life.

“My father trained me,” she said.

Ser Bryant snorted. “You expect me to believe that Malcolm Hawke of all people—”

The Revered Mother raised her hand to silence him. “We have no way of verifying your honesty. Your father is dead, Marian.”

“Why do you think I waited until now to turn myself in?” Marian asked on instinct.

“I would hardly call that turning yourself in,” Ser Bryant said.

“I panicked,” Marian argued. “Can you blame me? Almost my whole life, my father taught me to hide what I am. You don’t know the threats he used. And my mother brought me to the chantry every week, where I learned that the Maker hated the way I was living. I just want to make things right now.”

Marian felt sick with her lies, but she hoped that any self-loathing she evinced would only reinforce the image of the disgusting coward she was trying to project to her judges.

“I didn’t mean to hurt you, Mother,” she continued. “I was afraid. I hid for so long. So I drowned my fear at Dane’s Refuge. It was a mistake. I’m so sorry.”

Ser Bryant scoffed, but the Revered Mother held up her hand to silence him.

“You have never practiced blood magic?” she asked.

“No, never,” Marian replied.

“You never attacked anyone before me?”

“No,” Marian said.

The Revered Mother was quiet for several seconds. “I believe you,” she said at last. “We teach our children to honor their parents but not what to do when their parents are in the wrong. It must have been difficult.”

Marian nodded, afraid to speak lest her relief sound offensive to her captors. At least there was light at the end of this tunnel, a strange and confining light but light nonetheless. As long as she was alive there was hope that one day she might be free again.

“Your suffering will be over soon,” the Revered Mother continued. “You will be well-cared-for in the Circle. Unfortunately, we cannot spare any of Lothering’s templars to escort you. I will write to the Knight Commander of the Tower Circle. In light of your family’s less than wise decisions regarding your magic, you will understand why I will require you to remain in the chantry until the templars from the Circle arrive. It is best for all involved that your contact with your family ends now.”


	3. Chapter 3

It was almost two weeks before the templars from the Circle Tower arrived in Lothering. During that time, Marian slept in her cell on a cot that had been moved there for her comfort and was allowed to move around the chantry during the day provided that there was a templar free to watch her and, more importantly, none of the other Hawkes were in the building.

News traveled fast in Lothering. By the end of Marian’s second day of captivity, everyone knew at least a variation of what had happened, including her family. She wished she could contact them, tell them she was safe and that somehow she would escape to see them again someday, but even letters were forbidden by the Revered Mother. 

On the fourth day, Ser Maron let down his guard for a moment, and freedom called to Marian through the open chantry doors. She almost ran, but a second’s hesitation lost her the opportunity. She consoled herself with the idea that she needed a concrete plan before any escape could be made good. Certainly, escape would be more difficult from the Circle, but too much impulsiveness might cost her more than her freedom. She swore to herself that she would wait until she had an actionable plan to make any move.

On the fifth day, prompted by templar boasting about having taught Carver a lesson—“That Hawke brat couldn’t hold his own against a bucket of water.”—Marian briefly slipped her guard and tried to convince one of the sisters to deliver the letter in secret. The sister had thought about it a moment and then said in her distinct Orlesian accent, “Well, I _could_ , but it wouldn’t be right.” Marian hadn’t tried again.

On the eighth day, the templar who came to bring Marian her breakfast found her huddled in the corner, asleep, her cot having been smashed to pieces. A thorough investigation by Ser Bryant revealed that the destruction had been caused by physical means, namely Marian’s bruised and bloody hands, and not magic. The Revered Mother deemed it a fit of grief. She brought Marian’s dinner herself that night and stayed to give counsel to the troubled young woman. Marian spoke not a word during the entire visit.

After the Revered Mother’s visit, Marian’s captors noted a marked change in her behavior. Previously, she had been a chatty prisoner, poking at the templars with quips and scathing insults cloaked in humor. Now, she was quiet. She replied when spoken to, but said nothing more than necessary. When free of her cell, she paced the walls of the chantry until her templar guard, fed up with the walking, sent her back. She was alert and attentive and yet completely withdrawn.

Ser Bryant was worried by this sudden change in Marian’s behavior, believing it to be indicative of a giving up, a laxness of mind that might leave her open to possession, but he kept his concern to himself. The Circle templars would arrive soon, he reasoned, and they had so much more experience dealing with maleficarum and abominations if it came to that. 

Lothering was so quiet and he had been there so long. He had dealt with few enough apostates. More than that, he had no taste for killing a member of his community, a well-liked member of his community. He had never had a reason to dislike Marian before and had always held a great deal of respect for her parents. He suspected the Revered Mother felt the same.

“I mean, is this really necessary?” Anders tugged his arm toward him to indicate that he didn’t appreciate the vice-like grip the templar had on it. He stumbled forward as he was pushed up to the First Enchanter’s desk.

“You’ve made your point, Greagoir,” Irving said. “Let the poor boy go back to his room now.”

“Just let him go after all the trouble he caused?” Greagoir shook his head. “No. He deserves to be punished.”

“Being brought back here is punishment enough,” Anders complained.

“Anders,” Irving said sharply. “I believe the spectacle of a templar squad dragging him all the way up the tower and a further reduction of his stockroom privileges is enough. If you disagree, I welcome you to discuss it with me _in private_.”

The Knight-Commander was silent for several seconds, his jaw set. “Take this mage to his room,” he ordered the templars who had escorted Anders thus far. “And stand guard. I don’t want him leaving that room until the First Enchanter and I come to an agreement.”

The templars saluted and two stepped forward to grab Anders’s arms. He twisted out of their grasp.

“I can walk by myself, thank you very much,” he said. He turned and gave Greagoir a very sour look as he was led out of the room. 

Knight-Commander Greagoir waited until it was reasonable to assume that Anders and the templars were out of earshot. “How many times?” he demanded. “How many times has that mage escaped from the Circle?”

“And how many times has anyone been hurt in the escape?” Irving asked evenly in response.

“That’s beside the point!” Greagoir objected.

“From my perspective, that is the point,” Irving said. “Anders has never attacked anyone in his escape and he has always come back peaceably when he is found. I have never seen any tendency toward blood magic or any other forbidden magic in him. So, unless you have evidence that he is a maleficar, I cannot accept your demands for such harsh punishment.”

“Every time he escapes, he must be hunted down by templars who would be better used tracking down actually dangerous apostates,” Greagoir said. “He may do no harm himself, but every drop of blood spilled by apostates who are not captured due to his antics is on his hands. An end must be put to these escapes…by any means.”

“And you mean to do this by crushing him under your heel?” Irving asked. “Anders is troubled, but he is not beyond help. Making him more miserable than he already is will do nothing to encourage him to stay. Show him you can be merciful and perhaps he will recognize it enough to listen.”

Greagoir shook his head, then sighed. “Two weeks confined to his room. We can’t have the younger mages and apprentices thinking they can get away with what he has done. But that is the end of my patience and my mercy. The next time he escapes, you must swear to let me do with him as I must. We have tried your way for long enough.”

Nine days after leaving Lothering, Marian could see the Circle Tower rising up from Lake Calenhad as she and her templar escorts approached the docks. They had made good time, but they could only go so fast with five templars guarding an apostate and refusing to stay at any of the inns that dotted their path in favor of building their own camp each night.

The lake would be an obstacle to her escape, she remarked as she was led up to the boat that was tied up at the dock. Of course, she had heard before that Fereldan’s Circle was in the middle of a lake, but it was so much larger in reality than it had been in her imagination. 

The ferryman was a templar and Marian’s guards greeted him amicably as she revised her theories about escape. Then they helped their prisoner into the boat and sat her between two templars. The other three remained onshore. 

Marian looked around as they pushed off from the dock, feigning awe while she judged the potential reflexes of the templars seated beside her. If she waited until they were halfway to the Tower and was fast enough, she might make it overboard. The templars would not dare follow her into the water with their heavy armor. But how far would she get? She was road-weary, the water was cold, her clothes would weigh her down, and there were three templars waiting on the nearest shore. If she were some great swimmer, she might have risked it. But she was fair at best and, though she tensed with the urge to act, she remained seated in the boat.

There would be other chances to escape. Or, well, she hoped there would be. Her father had spent well over a decade in a Circle and still managed to escape. Marian was determined not to shame his memory by failing to accomplish the same.


	4. Chapter 4

The Circle Tower was perhaps the larges structure Marian had ever seen. It was imposing and dark in the dim light of dusk. It appeared as much a prison as she had ever imagined. She nearly stumbled climbing out of the boat as she stared at it, looking up to the highest point she could see from this close.

The heavy main doors were already swinging open as the second of Marian’s templar guards unhooked the looped rope from the Tower’s dock and tossed it back to the ferryman-templar. She was encouraged forward by a light tug on her arm by the first guard and soon she was passing from the dusk to a well-lit hall.

“Welcome to your new home,” she was greeted by a relatively young templar. He was perhaps thirty and had an easy manner about him, relaxed and smiling. He clearly felt no threat from her, unlike the templars in Lothering and those who were sent to escort her. And why should he? Here in the Circle, there was likely a surplus of templars ready to come running at the slightest hint of danger. “I am Knight-Captain Hadley and you must be the apostate from Lothering.”

“I am,” Marian said, keeping her eyes trained on the hem of his uniform as she had practiced in Lothering.

“Remind me of your name?” Hadley asked.

“Hawke,” Marian replied, jutting her chin up. She would not pronounce the name inherited from her father while staring at the ground. “Marian Hawke.”

“Well, Marian Hawke,” Hadley said, familiarizing himself with her name, “it is growing late. The Knight-Commander and the First Enchanter have agreed that your formal introduction to the Circle be put off until tomorrow morning. In the meantime, Giliana here will help you fetch some fresh clothes and find you a bunk in the apprentice quarters.”

The templar indicated a woman with greying hair and a red sunburst on her forehead.

“Greetings,” the woman said in an unnervingly even tone. “I welcome you to the Circle. My name is Giliana. I will take you to the dry goods storage now. Please follow me.” She turned and began walking away at a slow, even pace.

Marian hesitated, glancing at the Knight-Captain, who nodded his encouragement, before following Giliana out of the hall.

“Do all the mages talk like that here?” Marian asked Giliana once they were out of the Knight-Captain’s earshot.

“I am not a mage,” Giliana replied. “I am Tranquil.”

“Tranquil?” Marian asked. “What does that mean?”

“It means that my connection to the Fade has been severed,” Giliana replied without inflection. “I no longer dream or experience emotion.”

Marian shuddered at the horror of such a prospect, suddenly feeling incredibly sheltered. Had her father known about these Tranquil and merely kept their existence from his children? Or was this a phenomenon unique to the Fereldan Circle? “But how?” she asked. “Why?”

“I am forbidden from describing the Rite to anyone,” Giliana said. “I chose to undergo it to be free from the burdens of my magic.”

Marian shook her head, not willing to contemplate what would lead a person to choose such an existence. She decided not to ask any more questions to avoid hearing more of that frightening monotone. 

Giliana led Marian into the storeroom and approached a wall lined with shelves of folded garments. She gave Marian a brief appraising look and selected a robe from one of the shelves. She unfolded it, held it up to Marian, and then refolded it before handing it over.

“This will fit you,” she said. “You will require spares.” She took two more robes from the same shelf and handed them to Marian. “Also smallclothes and sleepwear.” She selected garments from the appropriate shelves and gave them to Marian as well. “I will take you to the apprentice quarters now.” She turned and led Marian back out of the storeroom.

The apprentice quarters were comprised of two large rooms lined with bunk beds, one for male apprentices, and the other for female apprentices. Giliana led Marian to the latter. Within, apprentices as young as five or six and as old as twenty-five were all preparing for bed in various states of undress. Some were laughing and playing. At least one of the youngest was crying for her mother. Others were chatting amicably.

Giliana led Marian to the far side of the room and indicated that the empty lower bunk was to be hers. As soon as Marian acknowledged this, the Tranquil woman left the room. Marian sighed and sat down on her bed, feeling drained and numb now that she was here and there was nothing to do but wait until morning.

A face topped with long, dark brown curls abruptly appeared from over the edge of the top bunk. She had large grey eyes, but otherwise delicate features, and sharply pointed ears. An elf. “Hello!” she chirped brightly.

“Hello,” Marian returned warily.

“You’re new,” the elf remarked. “Did they transfer you from another Circle?”

“No,” Marian said.

“I didn’t think they transferred apprentices,” the elf agreed. “So, that means you’re an apostate. Well, not anymore, but, _Maker_ , that must have been terrifying.”

“Oh, _yes_ , I nearly wet myself every day,” Marian snarked on instinct.

The elf laughed. “You’re strange, do you know that? Anyway, I’m Neria Surana. We’ll be spending a lot of time together.”

“Marian Hawke. It’s good to meet you, Neria.”

“Well, it’s almost lights out, so you might want to get changed before the templars come around to check on us,” Neria said. “You’re new, so you probably won’t get in trouble, but they like it better when they don’t have to tell you the rules.”

“And that’s not unreasonable?” Marian asked, even as she stood to change her clothes.

“Do you have any idea how many mages live in the Circle?” Neria asked. “The templars are busy. It would be more unreasonable to ask them to remember who knows what about what.”

“I see…” Marian said slowly. “I’m glad I have to tell me what’s what before the templars have to, then.”

“Right,” Neria said. “Us mages have to look out for each other. The chest at the head of the bed is yours, by the way. Not that it looks like you have much to put in it.”

“I had to leave everything behind when the templars took me,” Marian said.

“It was the same for me,” Neria said. “Of course, I was six, so I didn’t have much, to begin with. Mama cried so much and the templars had to pry me out of her arms.”

“I didn’t get to say goodbye to my mother,” Marian said.

“People still talk to their mothers when they get as old as you?” Neria asked.

Marian looked up from arranging her new clothes in the bottom of her chest. “Of course!”

“I’m sorry, I’ve never met anyone who lived outside the Circle as long as you, except maybe the templars, but I’m not going to ask them about their mothers,” Neria said. “What about your father?”

“He died,” Marian said shortly, not ready to discuss her grief with a stranger.

“I’m sorry,” Neria said. “What about brothers and sisters?”

“I have a brother and a sister, twins. They just turned sixteen,” Marian said.

“You’ll have to tell me more about them tomorrow,” Neria said. “I had a little brother, but I don’t really remember him. I’ve always wondered what it would be like to be a real big sister.”

A bell rang and Neria startled. 

“Oh! Lights out! Get in bed!” she hissed before pulling her head and shoulders back up onto her bunk.

Just as Marian crawled under the covers, the bell rang again. There was a hush like all the apprentices were holding their breath, and then the sound of armor. Marian couldn’t see what was happening at first, but it soon became clear that several templars were walking up and down the aisles checking that all apprentices were accounted for and that nothing mischievous was going on. Satisfied, the templars left without a word and every candle in the dormitory went out simultaneously.

There was a collective sigh of relief and shortly the sound of snoring could be heard from several points across the room. Marian wished she could join in—she was exhausted from her days on the road—but sleep evaded her. Perhaps it was the strange smell of her new surroundings or the multitude of women around her making noises she had never needed to contend with before, or perhaps it was the sick knot that had been growing in her stomach ever since she crossed the threshold into the Tower. Whatever it was, she only dropped into fitful unconsciousness several hours later.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fair warning, I have changed some of the layout of the Circle Tower, some unintentionally because I couldn't find a decent map of the place for reference and it's been a little while since I played the mage origin of DA:O, some intentionally because I seem to recall the layout lacking certain things I thought the Circle Tower reasonably ought to have (but maybe I'm just crazy o.O).

The morning came too soon. Marian tried to ignore it, but the apprentices were getting ready for the day and their bustle was more than she could tune out. She groaned and rolled over, but it made no difference.

There was a hard slap of bare feet on stone beside her. “If you want breakfast, you might want to consider waking up now,” Neria said. “Especially if you want to bathe before breakfast.”

Marian rolled over and sat up on her elbows. “Bathe?”

Neria laughed. “Of course! What? Did you think we just wandered around the Tower like a herd of unwashed barbarians? Imagine the smell! The boys next door are bad enough. I wouldn’t want all of us to go about like that.” She leaned in and lowered her voice. “I hear the enchanters each get their own private washroom.” Her eyes sparkled and she flushed a little. “I want my own washroom.”

Marian sat up. “I’ll settle for whatever we’ve got right now. I was on the road ten days from Lothering.”

“Lothering?” Neria asked. “Is that where you’re from? I’ve never heard of it.”

“Eh,” Marian shrugged. “It’s not really worth hearing of.”

“I’m from the Denerim Alienage,” Neria said. “Not that I really remember it. I’m lucky to be out of there. At least, that’s what the templars say. I wouldn’t know.”

“I’ve never been to Denerim,” Marian said. “My father was an apostate, so we moved around a lot when I was young, but we always kept to small towns and villages—places with few templars.” She was quiet for a minute after that, staring her memories into the stone floor. Images of packing up quickly, praying she didn’t forget anything, because a templar had looked at Father the wrong way or, worse, at her or Bethany. Leaving without saying goodbye to friends, friends Mother was too paranoid to even let them have after that close call with Bethany. She sighed. “Anyway, where’s this washroom?”

“Get your things and I’ll show you,” Neria said.

Marian got up and opened her chest. She took out one of the robes Giliana had given her and fresh smallclothes. As soon as she closed the chest, Neria nodded her head in the direction she wanted Marian to follow. They walked through the rows of beds to the other side of the room where there was an archway that led into a walled-off section of room.

In the front, visible through the arch, was a line of mirrors with stools where apprentices fixed their hair and applied various creams and beauty paints to their faces. Along the outside wall was a line of water-closets. In the far corner, behind a curtain that kept it hidden from view through the arch, was a large basin of steaming water with a trough around its edge filled with soaps and perfumes beyond anything Marian had ever seen. There were a number of short stools each with its own bucket arranged at even intervals about an arm’s length from the basin all the way around.

A couple of the stools were occupied by bathing apprentices.

“After you’re done in here, you need to put your nightgown back in your chest,” Neria said. “If you leave it on your bed, the Tranquil will take it for washing. Leave stuff for washing too often, and they might tell on you, then you’ll get a scolding for being wasteful.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Marian said.

“Then I’ll see you at breakfast,” Neria said. “I usually sit in the back corner. There will be so many people who want to meet you. We don’t get apprentices like you.”

“Maker, I’m going to be famous,” Marian laughed. She wondered if it would offend her bunkmate terribly if she didn’t join her for breakfast. Fame was not exactly conducive to escape. Her plan was to pass a quiet existence in the Circle, head down while she searched for weaknesses and escape routes. Then again, having some friends might help her research go faster. Neria had obviously been in the Tower for quite some time; she had to know things about their prison.

Either way, the decision was taken from Marian when templars arrived to take her to meet the Knight-Commander and First Enchanter just as she was putting away her nightclothes after her bath. They led her up through the many floors of the Tower, giving her glimpses of Circle life. There was a dining hall, enchanters’ quarters, a library spanning several floors, space for practicing spells, what appeared to be a laboratory of some sort, templar quarters, and finally the offices of the Knight-Commander and First Enchanter. Marian was led into the office of the First Enchanter.

“You must be Marian Hawke,” First Enchanter Irving said brightly. “It’s not often we receive a request from a Revered Mother to send templars to escort a grown apostate to the Circle for the first time.”

“For obvious reasons,” Greagoir added. “But the Revered Mother assured me there were no such concerns in your case. She claimed you turned yourself in. Is that correct?”

“Yes, ser,” Marian said.

“Why?” Greagoir asked.

Marian focused on the feet of Irving’s desk. “My father was an apostate and he raised me to fear the Circle, but my mother brought me to the chantry every week. I learned the teachings of Andraste, how magic should serve man and not rule over him, and how that was best done in a Circle. It never felt right, how we were living. But I loved my father and it would have broken his heart to see me go to the Circle. It would also have put him at risk and I was afraid of what he might do to avoid the templars. But…after he died, there was nothing to stop me anymore. I knew I was leaving the rest of my family behind, but I knew they would be safer without me there and that, ultimately, they would understand why I had to go, unlike my father.”

“That’s a pretty story,” Greagoir said, and Marian held her breath.

“And a plausible one, too,” Irving said jovially, though Marian could feel it tighten the tension between the Knight-Commander and the First Enchanter. “It could not have been an easy decision to make.”

“No, ser,” Marian said.

“And we accept apprentices of all ages, provided that abide the rules and practice magic safely. Or am I mistaken, Knight-Commander?”

Greagoir gave a tired sigh. “Of course not.”

Irving smiled at the templar. “Good.” He turned to Marian. “Of course, you will understand that expectations of you will be different here than when you studied under your father. You will be assigned a teacher to ensure that you are versed in the forms necessary to pass your Harrowing.”

“I understand,” Marian said.

Irving turned to Greagoir. “I see no reason to prolong this further. She passed two weeks at the Chantry in Lothering and ten days on the road with your templars and not a single report of poor conduct.”

Greagoir gave Marian a long look. “At your discretion, Irving,” he said.

“You are free to return to the apprentice quarters, Marian,” Irving said. “Your teacher will come to fetch you shortly.”

Marian returned to the apprentice quarters with a single templar to make sure she did not lose her way. She sat down on her bed to wait, assuming that her teacher would arrive in a few minutes.

But “shortly” grew longer and longer and, with nothing to do but sit, Marian grew drowsy. She was just on the edge of sleep when she heard a man’s voice echo through the almost deserted dormitory.

“Do you know where I can find a Marian Hawke?” He wasn’t speaking loudly, but the sound reverberated off the stone walls and through the empty air.

Marian sat up, blinking awake.

“No, sorry. Don’t know her,” replied the apprentice to whom he was speaking.

“You’re sure?” the man asked. There was a hint of frustration in his voice.

“I’m sorry,” the apprentice repeated. “I have to go.”

Marian waited until the apprentice was gone, watching the man with curiosity before she approached. He was younger than she expected, hardly older than her, and attractive, though in a distinctly different way from the men Marian had known up to now. “Pretty” was a word that came to mind, embodied in his long golden hair and soft, slim frame beneath his mage’s robes.

“I think you were looking for me,” she said.

“You’re Marian Hawke?” the man asked.

“As far as I’m aware, yes,” Marian replied.

The man looked her up and down in a way that was appraising, but not sexual. Well, maybe just a little sexual, but not unwelcomely so. Marian took the opportunity to return the look in kind.

“Andraste have mercy,” the man breathed, “ _you’re_ Marian Hawke?”

“Is there a problem?” Marian asked.

A look flashed in the man’s eyes that said there was a problem, very much so, but then he smoothed it down with a smile. “Oh, no. Not at all,” he said. “You’re just…not what I expected.”


	6. Chapter 6

Marian was about to reply to her new teacher’s remark about her unexpectedness when her stomach complained loudly about the length of time since her last meal. She froze.

“You haven’t had breakfast yet, have you?” her teacher asked.

“They took me to see the Knight-Commander and the First Enchanter before I could eat,” Marian said.

“I thought as much,” her teacher said. “Come on, then.” He turned and led her away from the dormitory.

Upstairs, the dining room was much more sparsely occupied than when the templars had led Marian up to the First Enchanter’s office. None present were wearing the simple robes of the apprentices and they watched her as she walked up the rows of long tables with her teacher. Then it occurred to her, seeing how some of their gazes seemed to pass right through her, that they were watching him.

At the window to the kitchen, he stopped and cleared his throat to catch the attention of the nearest person working there. The young man stopped what he was doing and approached the window. Marian remarked the same sunburst mark on his forehead as Giliana.

“Do you need something?” he asked in the same unnerving cadence.

“Yes,” Marian’s teacher said. “Due to the insensibility of the templars, this, ah—my, ah, apprentice was unable to eat at the designated time. As her mentor, I authorize you to give her breakfast now.”

“Very well,” the kitchen worker said and turned to get the food.

“Thank you,” Marian said.

“To be honest, I wasn’t sure that was going to work,” her teacher said with a little laugh. “Most of the time, you can’t get a Tranquil to help you without at least one parchment signed by a Senior Enchanter. Not that it’s their fault. The templars make rules like that to keep power out of the hands of as many mages as possible, and the Tranquil don’t know any better than to follow those rules.”

The Tranquil returned with the food, and they went to the nearest table so Marian could eat. She was so hungry that she ate the first half of her food with barely a break to breathe, but as she slowed down, she started thinking.

“It occurs to me that I don’t know your name,” she said.

Her teacher gave a smile that hinted at some unspoken joke. “You can call me Anders,” he said.

Marian gave him a long look. Fair as he was, she supposed the epithet fit him. If his hair had been a little redder, they might have called him “Marcher”.

“How old are you?” she asked.

“Are you doubting my abilities as an instructor based on my youth?” Anders asked with mock offense.

“I would say that I was giving you the benefit of the doubt by allowing you a chance to tell me you’re older than you look,” Marian said, matching his playful tone.

Anders smiled at her for the first time. “I’m twenty-four,” he said. “And now you have the chance to tell me you’re younger than you look.”

“I’m twenty,” Marian said.

Anders sighed, smile slipping off his face. “I thought so,” he said. 

He cast a subtle glance to the side and, when Marian looked in that direction, she saw two templars at a table. They hadn’t been there when she and Anders sat down, but it was clear from the way they moved when she turned her head slightly that they had been watching closely.

“I knew something had to be off,” Anders continued. “Greagoir was too eager and Irving was plotting. He’s always plotting.”

“I don’t understand,” Marian said.

“You’re too old,” Anders explained. “Practically a hedge mage.”

“I am not!” Marian protested.

“From their perspective, you are, and they’re just waiting for you to explode with forbidden magic. And they put me right in the middle. Two birds with one stone.”

Marian reeled from that assessment, the last few bites of food on her plate no longer looking so appetizing. “I’m not,” she repeated softly. “I haven’t done anything.” She remembered the first time she had attended chantry services after she had come into her magic, how sad and frightened by the Revered Mother’s sermon she had been. That same feeling was heavy in her stomach now.

“That’s why they’re waiting,” Anders said. “And hopefully we can maintain that balance until your Harrowing.”

“The First Enchanter mentioned that, too,” Marian said. “What is a Harrowing?”

“Another Circle secret,” Anders said with a bitter expression. He flicked his eyes pointedly in the direction of the templars and then continued, “I can’t tell you about it, but if you pass, it will protect you from some of the worst things that can happen here.”

“If I pass?” Marian asked. “What happens if I fail?”

Anders just shook his head. “Are you done eating?” he asked.

“I guess,” Marian said. She returned her dishes to the kitchen and left the dining hall with Anders. “You said, ‘two birds with one stone’ earlier,” she said as they climbed the stairs to the next level. “Why would the templars want to get rid of you?”

“Aside from the fact that I’m a mage?” Anders asked. “I suppose it must be because I annoy them.”

Marian snorted but made no further comment.

Two floors up, the library was busy. The youngest apprentices were gathered together with a very motherly mage who was teaching them the basics of how magic fit into the Chantry’s worldview.

Older apprentices worked one-on-one with their teachers, mastering magical theory. There were alcoves with desks set at regular intervals among the shelves, and Anders led Marian to the nearest free one.

“Wait here,” he instructed, then left, presumably to fetch some books.

Marian remarked that, for all the supposed danger of her arriving at the Circle as an adult, Anders was quite lucky it was not her younger self that he was expected to educate. He was not a very authoritative man, his command sounding more like a mild suggestion. A younger Marian would simply have wandered off and gotten into all sorts of mischief. As an adult, she had enough decency to wait for Anders to return for at least ten minutes before causing trouble. Yes, Anders was very lucky.

Just as Marian’s patience ran out and she prepared to go exploring, Anders returned with an armful of books. He set them on the desk with a heavy, dusty thud. “These are the basic primers,” he explained. “I’m sure you probably already know everything inside them unless you really are a hedge mage.” He paused for Marian to object, but she was too busy looking at the cover of the top book in the stack, so he continued. “But we can’t skip any of the steps unless we want those templars nosing in our business. As much pleasure as I might get from slamming a templar nose in one of these old tomes, I can’t imagine that’s what you want.”

Marian was still staring at the book. She ran her fingers over the textured cover. “I…know this book,” she said.

Marian was seven years old then. Mother was pale and pacing, holding a screaming Carver. She was bouncing him distractedly on her hip but doing very little to actually calm him. 

Marian was playing with Bethany, helping her build towers out of blocks. She was scared but didn’t know what to do about it. Father had been gone for several days now, and every time Mother looked at her, her eyes got shiny like she was going to cry. 

Then Father came through the door, dusty and disheveled from the road. Mother didn’t care. She flung her free arm around him and stayed there while Carver squirmed for freedom.

“You were supposed to be back yesterday, Malcolm,” she said.

“I’m sorry, my love,” Father replied and pressed a kiss into her forehead. He ruffled Carver’s hair and then stepped away, even as his son reached for him. He went to the table and set his satchel down. 

“Did you get it?” Mother asked.

Father nodded. “I did.”

“Thank the Maker!” Mother breathed.

“Get what?” Marian asked.

Father smiled at her, just starting to show those wrinkles around his eyes that she would remember so fondly when he was dead. “Come here, Marian,” he said. “I have a present for you.” 

Marian approached and Father pulled a book from his satchel. Marian ran her fingers over the textured cover. Mother had taught her to read, but such a big book still intimidated her. 

“This book will help you learn magic,” Father explained.

Marian looked over at Anders, her hand still on the book. “My father used this book to teach me magic when I was a child,” she said.

Anders showed his surprise through a twitch of expression. “I wasn’t aware there were any copies outside the Circles,” he said.

“I understand my father went through a great deal of trouble to get it for me,” Marian replied. She smiled at all her fond memories—using the book for her own education and then helping Father teach Bethany, or hindering on some occasions, after her magic manifested as well. 


End file.
